The Big Cliche
by chokitty fics
Summary: Rogue faces off against The Narrator in a battle of wits and poorly constructed plot devices. / set during after s1


**Disclaimer:** All roads lead to Disney and Marvel. Or most of them do, at any rate.

What belongs to me: the cover, the Narrator, and a love of the absurd. Questions? Comments? Shout into the abyss.

..

The room was unremarkable and cheap; a motel room virtually identical to any other frequented by the desperate, even down to the generic watercolor art on the walls and the faint aroma of old gym socks, mildew, and Pine Sol. The color scheme—purportedly meant to evoke a pastoral English garden—was faded, and consisted of a puce-y red-brown, a "green" that was closer to blue, and slate grey. It was a nausea-inducing combination.

As in most motels, the furniture was sparse; dominated by a full-size bed, a nightstand (complete with a large, unfashionable lamp and a clunky landline phone), a dresser, a bulky color TV, and a small desk/table with an accompanying (hard) chair.

All of it ugly, all of it vaguely familiar.

Rogue cataloged her surroundings dispassionately. Though it had been years since her last "episode", this was not the first time she had come to consciousness without being able to account for her current whereabouts, or how she had gotten there. Knowing her luck, it wouldn't be the last time, either.

The skunk-haired young woman sighed, running a gloved hand through her loose hair. She was refreshingly headache-free—an uncommon occurrence when she came-to after a fugue state. The rest of her was similarly unhurt.

"Thank you, God, for the small miracles," she announced to the empty room, lips quirked into something approximating a (bitter) smile.

The curtains were that same dismal shade of more-blue-than-green, and Rogue drew them aside and looked out into a parking lot that was empty except for a navy blue Honda Civic with missing license plates. No clues there; all it told her was that she was on the second floor, and that it was still autumn. Unless she was out of New York entirely and not just the City, which she sincerely hoped was not the case. That might get a little dicey on the way back home. As for _wh__y_ Rogue assumed she was out of the City... that was part of another conversation entirely, albeit one that could be basically summed up as "because reasons."

Much explain. Very information.

Rogue searched the bathroom next, but found nothing more than the typical soaps and miniature shampoos along with thin, scratchy towels, and plastic-wrapped disposable cups. She frowned at her reflection, who was wearing clothes that—while covering up almost every inch of her skin—were atypical for her. While she typically gravitated towards dark, rich colors (the notable exception being the bright yellow of her uniform), she was decked from head to toe in light pastels. Her long-sleeve henley was an off-white cream layered under a periwinkle t-shirt that said "I SHIH TZU NOT" with a small, fancy dog pictured beneath it. The kind of fancy toy breed that Logan refused to acknowledge. Her jeans were made out of soft, faded denim and Rogue bent her knees a few times experimentally and noted that they were supple and easy to move in.

"That's somethin' at least." The white and blue sneakers, on the other hand, were brand new and hadn't been broken in yet; the same with her light grey gloves. Annoying, but doable.

All of these were things that might have been _at the very least_ uncomfortable for the average person, but Rogue was a member of the X-Men and the problems inherent in waking up in an unknown place wearing clothes she did not own were almost restful compared to undermining terrorist organizations and stopping an international mutant-human war. Even if it were slightly more embarrassing. Saving the world was noble... waking up in a cheap motel room with no memory of the last however many hours? Less than noble.

"I should really get back to that saving the world thing." The X-Men might be looking for her already, depending on how long the fugue state had been, and the circumstances in which she left. They had enough on their plate without Rogue disappearing on them. Especially now that... What was it again? She was missing something. Something important—maybe vitally so. But the very idea of working through her patchwork mind in order to find the negative space where her memories should have been was enough to make her mouth sour.

Rogue shook her head and stopped her brisk search of the drawers—nothing in them but a copy of the Christian bible, anyway—to check under the bed. Nothing there but a singular sock that would only fit a toddler. She pushed aside the slight feeling of disappointment. Rogue hadn't really believed that she would have found any clues there either, but... it didn't make it any easier to bear.

She got up and turned back to the—

"That wasn't there before."

The _that_ was a manila folder _there_ on the desk, _before_ being since the moment she came into consciousness up until her brief survey under the bed. She'd been under there less than a minute—no more than a few seconds, really. Rogue felt her heart beat hard in her chest, adrenaline pumping through her blood, and she pivoted on one foot, taking in her surroundings in one long, firm glance.

Nothing. Not a single thing. No ruffled curtains. No smell of sulfur in the air. No change in the atmosphere.

"Wrong. Something—something's wrong. Off." Rogue could barely hear herself over the noise in her head, which had grown with the psyches feeding off of her altered emotional state. Couldn't even hear herself think, though that was nothing new with her internal noise. Neither of those things were too unusual. That was normal, this was— _"Strange."_

She inched forward. Her training emphasized caution, especially since there was a distinct lack of useful abilities to absorb. The folder was an unknown entity, and whoever left it there could be watching the room. Or have other people doing it for them.

The roar in her head grew louder as absorbed psyches rattled off suggestions or queries or commentary that added absolutely nothing. There was a wail in the background, too, but Rogue was so used to it that she treated it like white noise.

Were there any cameras? Was she being set up? Was this part of some strange, elaborate trap set up by some nefarious villain—one whose purpose would only be discovered months later after the team was led on a wild goose chase that lasted for months? What if her actions just fucked everything up?

"Fuck it," she said, and flipped open the manila folder.

Her inner psyches held their collective non-breath, and in light of that the silence was nearly deafening.

Nothing happened.

Just a blank page among blank pages... Rogue closed her eyes and exhaled. She opened them again and—

**HELLO, ANNA**

"OK, that's _definitely _not normal."


End file.
